


On a Barstool (Shut Up and Dance with Me)

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Series: | January 2016 Prompt Challenge | [28]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Drinking Age, Emissary!Stiles, F/M, M/M, Shut Up and Dance with Me by Walk the Moon, alpha!Derek, alpha!Scott, inverted songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Stiles' 21st birthday, and Derek funds the party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Barstool (Shut Up and Dance with Me)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is what I like to call an "inverted songfic," where I try to use as many lyrics from the song as possible within the narrative, without making them seem forced or clunky. I tried it first with my fic, [1989](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3268637), and really like the challenge it gives me as an author, and the structure it gives the story.
> 
> I've been working on this one for a while, so when the prompt came up (on the 28th, which is my birthday), I decided to tie it, the song, and this WIP all together. :)
> 
> Lyrics are underlined.

**From: Scott**

**Ur coming rite?**

           

Derek’s jaw clenched instinctively when he read the sender’s name. The pup had been texting him even more than his betas over the last few weeks, doubtful and reassuring in equal measure:

 

**hes totes gonna luv it**

**just read sum bad reviews. fuck fuck fuck.**

**wut if he hates it?**

**im gonna get that fruity liquor he luvs. that makes it better rite?**

**just booked dancers. this is gonna be so AWSUM!! :D**

 

Nevermind the first text after discussing Stiles’ birthday was a quick ‘need blank chk 4 club deposit.’ And if Derek didn’t think twice before replying with, ‘Who do I make it out to?’ well, that’s between the alphas. Besides, a guy only turns twenty-one once, and Scott was hell-bent on making it special for Stiles. So what if Derek was footing the bill? The Packs having fun, _bonding_ , was what was important.

Or so Derek kept telling himself.

He flinched when he saw his bank statement after the checks cleared.

Unfortunately for Derek, even with Stiles as the Hale Pack emissary—a thing Derek thought, _hoped_ , would bring them closer—things were strange… _strained_ between them.

At Pack meetings, Stiles watched him from across the large wooden table, hand poised against his chin, and his dark eyes lingered a little too long, held a little too much…something. Derek could smell the confusion hanging low, like a fog, in his scent, the undertones of quiet anxiety when Stiles walked by just a little too closely. He leaned unnecessarily close to Derek when researching, stayed a little too long once the rest of the Pack cleared out.

Sometimes Derek would come home to Stiles in the loft, only for Stiles to leave the moment he arrived.

When they were ever alone—a rare occurrence considering the nature of their relationship as alpha and emissary—Stiles hardly met Derek’s gaze, and a surreal stillness softened his previously enthusiastic movements. Melancholy bled into his scent like an open wound, though his face betrayed none of it. He was quieter, more subdued, more professional, almost. He didn’t know how it happened, but a gulf opened between them.

And beneath it all, the gentle hum of Druid magic.

Stiles’ moods could be blamed on his new training as much as anything, really. Werewolves, hunters, evil spirits. It often left Derek regretting ever asking Stiles to take on the responsibility, though it was the best possible choice for him to make as an alpha. But if Stiles struggled with being emissary and all it entailed, Derek wouldn’t dare ask for more.

So if Derek closed his eyes and relished how Stiles’ scent and magic lingered in the loft long after he left, if he took care to keep a plentiful stock of Stiles’ favorite comfort tea in his pantry, if he sometimes brewed a cup just because it reminded him of Stiles, if he wondered if the weight of an arm and the warmth of a body and the softness of his sheets might finally help Stiles get a decent night’s rest…

Derek thought it in the best interests of all parties for him to avoid Stiles as much as possible. It made things awkward, his pining, but at least he didn’t run the risk of his selfishness endangering the good of his pack. The Pack having an emissary was more important than his wolf claiming a mate.

Stiles’ birthday was a few days away, and Scott’s message blinked ominously on Derek’s phone, awaiting an answer.

 

**To: Scott**

**maybe.**

 

“No,” Derek said simply, nursing the beer he wouldn’t feel. He’d congratulate himself if he wasn’t teetering so precariously on the knife edge of Bad Decisions. He had a knack for them, bad decisions, but he was fast becoming a victim of the night, helpless against the rip-tide that drew everyone into the festivities and celebration and sheer life that was A Party for Stiles Stilinski.

Beside him, Erica sat in Boyd’s lap, the pair of them making full use of the open bar their VIP bracelets granted them. Though neither were effected by what they consumed, they used it as an excuse to be even _more_ affectionate with each other and even _less_ considerate of Derek’s dower mood. At least they hadn’t left him to drink alone.

He’d been quite content to hover near the bar, where he had a clear view of the entire club, and could keep an eye on Stiles.

Grey skinny jeans and some beat up sneaks, hair styled just so, a v-neck tee that clung to his broad shoulders and tapered nicely down his chest to his waist. His cheeks were ruddy, flushed, his smile blinding.

Stiles doing rounds of shots with classmates and friends, his quick “Whooo!” through the burn easy for Derek to focus on.

Stiles dancing between a mass of people, men and women alike, hips loose and movements smooth, all lithe muscle and mature grace.

Stiles laughing, and singing, and sweaty, and bleary-eyed, and bouncing on his toes when the bass dropped.

Happy.

Derek’s wolf preened, knowing he’d done this for Stiles. Sure, Scott and Lydia might have planned and executed the whole ordeal, but Derek’s money funded it. Besides, his wolf didn’t know the difference.

God, Stiles was _so happy_.

But now Stiles was standing in front of him, wearing a frown on his kissable lips with his knuckles pressed tight against his hips, his brows drawn deep like a pouting child. Decidedly and suddenly very _un_ happy. And yes, this was why they’d only ever have an alpha-emissary relationship. Derek made Stiles decidedly unhappy, and on his _birthday_.

His wolf whined morosely. He shut it up with another gulp of imported beer and pretended not to feel guilty about denying the birthday boy his wish.

“Are you serious?” Stiles screeched, high enough to pierce Derek’s ears even over the booming bass of the club. He was seven shots in and three sheets to the wind—Derek could smell it on him. The drinks he drank. The drinks he spilled. The drinks he spilled while drinking. He was in love with a disaster. “All that fluid, lupine grace and—no. You know what? You’re going. I don’t care. It’s my birthday. I get what I want.” He took Derek’s arm and pulled him from his seat on the barstool, all but dragging him through the mass of packed, sweaty bodies.

Derek glanced over his shoulder, begging Erica with his best puppy-eyes for an excuse, a reason, a _rescue_. Because Stiles’ scent, heavy with their proximity, was sending him headlong into the same sort of drunken stupor that had Stiles asking him to dance in the first place. His wolf was _howling_ with a raw, primal need he barely had the sense to contain, and if he were pressed flush against Stiles’ warm skin while those narrow hips rocked and swayed against his…

Chemical—Stiles’ scent was sticky sweet with liquor and joy and an undercurrent of excitement that could turn sexual in a split second. Derek could almost smell the scale tipping towards lust. Physical—Stiles had been attractive as a teen, the incarnation of the perfect concoction for Derek’s wolf senses. Powerful when he needed to be, yielding when he needed to be. Bright eyes and smirking mouth, baring his pale throat for Derek to ogle with a dramatic eye-roll, scent spiking with a smug sort of mischief, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on Derek. Ultimately, kryptonite—each step deeper into the club’s dancing throng heralded the inevitable end where Derek would be brought to his knees, his attraction, his affection, his lust, a secret brought into the blaring, flashing lights of the club the moment Stiles touched him with his fluttering fingers.

_Fuck._

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare look back,” Stiles chided. He laced his fingers with Derek’s, held him with his hand over his shoulder as he lead the wolf further and further from the bar.

“I don’t dance,” Derek tried weakly as they took the floor.

“Is that because you can’t, or because you don’t like to?” Stiles challenged. He spun on his toes easily, the treads of his old Chuck Taylors sliding on the dance floor, and held Derek’s hand until they were standing face to face. He smirked. “Hard for me to believe a blue-blood born wolf like Derek Hale wasn’t subjected to some lessons expected of high society.”

“I doubt leading you in a waltz would be appropriate,” Derek grumbled.

Stiles laughed. “When have I ever been appropriate?”

But the longer they stood still, talking, in the middle of the throbbing mob, the more out of place Derek felt. His skin itched. There were too many bodies, his senses too clouded by the onslaught, helpless to the bass and faded light. He no longer had the visual vantage he did at the bar. Anyone, anything, could approach them and Derek wouldn’t have a moment’s warning.

As if sensing his growing anxiety—and maybe he did, considering the deep bond forged between alpha and emissary—Stiles cupped Derek’s face with both hands and the touch stopped his eyes from darting around their immediate vicinity. Derek felt it in his chest when Stiles looked at him and said, “Just keep your eyes on me, Sourwolf. You’ll be fine.”

Derek swallowed thickly as one of Stiles’ hands dragged down the side of his neck, slow, tender, and his emissary’s expression softened to match. It was so out of place in the flashing lasers and thumping music, Derek couldn’t help but zero in on the soft hitch in Stiles’ breath. He wanted to tilt his head, give him his bared throat as some token of the emotions he couldn’t possibly deduce to something as simple _affection_. Stiles’ hand eventually came to rest on Derek’s shoulder, and the wolf could breathe again. But only for a moment, because Stiles’ other hand traveled a similar path down Derek’s throat, but continued seamlessly down his chest, his abs, his shirt bunching then releasing along the path of Stiles’ warm warm hand. Eventually, Stiles wrapped a sure grip around Derek’s hip, fingertips just skirting beneath the edge of his jeans.

“I’ll lead,” Stiles murmured.

Derek answered, because it was safer than not answering. “Not much leading in a club.”

“Watch me.” And on the next beat, Stiles pushed him.

Stiles pushed and pulled him, pressure here, gripping there. Hands, hips, chest. And Derek, like a marionette, moved where Stiles bade, the space between them as easy as a stream current in how it directed Derek. Stiles’ scent went spiky, tangy, a smell that bordered on how a lemon tasted, and Derek immediately recognized his magic.

“You’ve bewitched me,” Derek mused. How unalarmed he was with the realization was alarming. With Stiles, the magic was safe, sure, benign in its intent and so different from the spells Jennifer had cast over him to enslave him and make him submit. It quieted his anxiety, and his wolf hummed contentedly along with its thrum.

“Body and soul,” Stiles answered hopefully. It fell flat as a joke, too heavy to maintain any sort of levity, too much like a question to sharpen a sarcastic edge. They were close, but not touching, their bodies moving in uncanny tandem. Sparks flew with every near-miss of their hips, and whether it was their natural chemistry or Stiles’ magic, Derek couldn’t tell.

And this—having Stiles, but not. His emissary, but not his mate; bound to be together, but not the way Derek craved. Yearning for something just out of reach. This boy could be his destiny, the embodiment of the endless searching, the endless wanting, _the never enough never good enough_ that themed his life since the fire.

This was dangerous, and since Stiles had failed at dispersing the gravity of the moment, Derek tried his hand at it. “You’re holding back,” he said, smirking. Deep in his eyes, Derek saw he’d succeeded.

Stiles took a step further into Derek’s space, his hand pushing up from his shoulder to grip the back of his neck briefly before tangling possessively in the sweat-damp strands of his hair. With that one step came the press of his body, a single, flowing wave that raked across Derek’s senses as he moved to the music—and Derek, desperate to keep the contact, followed Stiles’ lead with a needy sort of hunger. “Shut up and dance with me,” Stiles demanded, then he sealed his mouth against Derek’s.

Wet mouths and hot tongues, Derek whined when Stiles suckled his bottom lip, and his knees nearly buckled. But Stiles caught him, held him up as he pressed for more, a coordinated effort to unravel Derek’s patchwork sanity stitch by stitch, kiss by kiss, grind by grind. He moaned Derek’s name into their kiss, and Derek’s wolf whined within him.

Stiles was twenty-one, and Derek had been in love with him for nearly four years. This. This kiss. This moment. Derek realized it was his last chance to have Stiles, that if rejected, Stiles might never be bold enough to try again. Somehow hidden in plain sight, somehow still secret even in the middle of a mass of dancing bodies, Stiles took this plunge—a plunge Derek had been too fearful to take himself.

It was Stiles’ birthday, and he got what he wanted. If he wanted Derek, he’d have him. And Derek couldn’t be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
